In the freezing night wind, that dashing figure riding a flying sword with robes streaming behind him—if looked at closely—was considerably less composed than he appeared from a distance.
In fact, Mo Fan was absolutely panicking.
"This piece of junk—where's the steering wheel?! Brakes! WHERE ARE THE BRAKES?!"
High in the air, Mo Fan's feet were glued dead to the ownerless flying sword, while the [ Floating Soul Wings ] pumped a steady stream of lift and thrust from behind him.
But this crude, violently cobbled-together "physical sword-flight technique" was, in practice, a complete disaster.
He was like a drunk man with no driver's license whose foot was welded to the gas pedal.
Careening through the cloud layer above Hundred Forging Peak in wild, clumsy zigzags, nearly slamming face-first into a protruding rock face at least three times.
"There it is! The valley's right below! Land! LAND FOR ME!"
By the moonlight, Mo Fan finally made out his hidden valley courtyard below.
In a flurry, he attempted to rein in the death-qi behind his back, attempting something resembling a controlled vertical descent.
However, the pilot on his first "test flight" had severely underestimated the momentum of a high-altitude drop.
And severely overestimated his own micro-management control over this improvised combo technique.
He cut the death-qi too fast. The lift vanished in an instant.
"Oh HELL——!"
With a truly wretched scream, Mo Fan lost all balance—head down, feet up—and became a cyan streak of motion.
Plummeting straight toward his own courtyard's dirt floor like a comet making landfall.
BOOM——!!!
A deafening crash exploded through the silent valley. The surrounding rock walls actually shuddered slightly.
The flat dirt in the center of the courtyard was instantly cratered—two meters across, half a meter deep. Dust and rock fragments erupted in all directions.
Several full seconds passed.
Then a single mud-caked hand reached up from the bottom of the crater with extreme difficulty, gripping the edge of the pit.
A disheveled Mo Fan hauled himself out of the hole like a groundhog emerging from an ancient tomb, coughing and covered head to toe in dirt.
He spat out a mouthful of grit, dusted himself off with casual indifference, and rolled his neck and limbs.
Crack... crack...
A rapid-fire series of pops, like popping beans, echoed from his joints.
"If this were in the past, an impact like that would have snapped at least two ribs and had me bedridden for half a month."
Mo Fan pressed a hand to his completely intact chest and couldn't help but grin.
A high-altitude fall that would have left an ordinary Qi Condensation cultivator seriously injured was actually quite manageable for his current self.
"Sure enough, durability is the absolute truth."
While complaining, he bent down, wrapped both hands around his own leg, and with a grinding squeak of effort...
Forcibly pried off the flying sword that was stuck dead to his sole, tossing it casually into the corner of the yard.
In the Inner Sect, he decided, he would remain a low-profile infantryman for the time being.
He walked to the water vat in the courtyard, drew several buckets of ice-cold spring water, and poured them over himself from head to toe.
The freezing water washed away the blood and mud, as well as the thick, suffocating haze he had accumulated over the past week in Linshui Village.
After changing into dry, clean clothes, Mo Fan pushed open the door and stepped into his stone house.
The moment he entered, his gaze landed on the rough wooden table.
The letter he'd left before going down the mountain was still there—but the envelope had been opened.
Mo Fan walked over and picked it up.
Below his own note about "returning home to deal with family matters," several crooked, wildly inked lines of characters had been added.
At a glance, it was the unmistakable handiwork of that ADHD patient, Zhao Ziwei:
"Brother Xiaoqi, go handle your family stuff—I've got Hundred Forging Peak covered for you while you're gone! Don't worry about a thing!" "But you better roll back here safe and sound! You promised me! When you get back, we're going to have a proper drink! Also, I heard the Mission Hall at the Main Peak recently released a batch of highly lucrative fat jobs. Perfect timing; soon as you're back, your Senior Brother will personally take you to the Main Peak for some training to broaden your horizons, and we can make some Contribution Points on the side!" "Safe travels! — Left by your wise, mighty, and handsome Senior Brother Ziwei."
Looking at these lines of text, Mo Fan sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers gently rubbing the edge of the paper, his gaze becoming somewhat dazed.
A powerful, almost absurd sense of dissonance rose slowly in his heart.
He recalled his trip down the mountain this time—Fang Tong, San Niang, Wu Feng, that makeshift rogue cultivator squad he'd encountered at Qingmu Market.
In that muddy, bottom-rung world, everyone was calculating, and everyone harbored their own sinister designs.
For the sake of a paltry dozen low-grade spirit stones on a bounty, they would not hesitate to stab their companions in the back.
Even after falling into an illusion, a husband and wife could slaughter each other out of sheer greed.
That was an Asura field where human decency could be thoroughly trampled into the dirt just for survival.
Then he turned his eyes back to this—the Inner Sect of Azure Cloud Sect.
Although Hundred Forging Peak was a sanctuary for eccentrics, whether it was Wu Mang who had stood up for him against injustice...
Li Banxia who grumpily but kindly brewed medicine for him...
Or Zhao Ziwei, who left this heartwarming message and clamored to take him to the Main Peak...
The fellow disciples here were friendly and lived in harmony.
Everyone had their own quirks, but there was no bloody, life-and-death calculation over resources.
This place was practically a Xianxia utopia.
Poverty breeds malice, while comfort nurtures a conscience.
Mo Fan tilted his head back, looking at the stone ceiling, whispering quietly to himself.
Rogue cultivators at the bottom suffered from extreme resource scarcity; a single spirit stone could drive a strong man to his death.
So they could only tear at each other like stray dogs, stripping each other's living space.
The great sects, meanwhile, monopolized the absolute resources of the cultivation world and held the most top-tier spirit veins.
The disciples here didn't have to risk their lives for a few low-grade spirit stones.
They had the luxury to drape themselves in a cloak of warmth and morality, and cherish the bonds of brotherhood.
The so-called morality and harmony—in the end, they are built upon the foundation of surplus resources.
Mo Fan shook his head, the corners of his mouth hooking into a relieved chuckle.
He was no compassionate saint weeping over the injustice of the world; he had no need to criticize it.
Whether Zhao Ziwei and the others' warmth was a product of the sect's high welfare or stemmed from genuine acceptance...
At least in this moment, the temperature brought by this letter felt comfortable.
Mo Fan casually folded the letter paper, tossing all these grand and heavy philosophical thoughts straight to the back of his mind.
"No more thinking. Living—and living better and better—is what matters most."
He stretched a highly comfortable, joint-popping massive yawn.
The current him had officially stepped over the threshold of Tier-2.
In this Inner Sect of Azure Cloud Sect, he finally had a true foundation to stand on.
"Next, naturally, I should go with Senior Brother Ziwei to the Main Peak for a run, properly explore the heritage of this Inner Sect, and broaden my horizons."
For an entire week, whether in the crisis-ridden Linshui Village or facing the terrifying pressure of the old monster Miasma Dust...
Mo Fan's mind had been like a fully drawn bowstring, on the verge of snapping at any moment from the slightest disturbance.
But right now, in this stone house of his own, in this abandoned mine mountain.
He could finally, thoroughly and completely, lower all his guard.
Mo Fan didn't even bother taking off his clothes. He just threw himself heavily onto that bed lined with soft spirit beast hides.
His eyelids felt heavy as lead. The moment his head touched the pillow, without even a single second of transition...
Without defenses, without any stray thoughts, Mo Fan fell into a rare, extremely peaceful dreamland.
The next morning.
Unnamed wildflowers in the canyon drifted with a faint fragrance.
A few kingfishers landed on the stone window sills, letting out crisp and melodious chirps.
Sunlight slipped through the cracks, playfully spilling over Mo Fan's face.
No savage spirit beasts breaking down the door. No crisis. Everything was so peaceful.
Mo Fan slowly opened his eyes, rolled over, and felt the slightly cool, gentle morning mountain breeze.
Since crossing into this crisis-ridden, kill-or-be-killed cultivation world—
This Necromancer, who spent every single day frantically probing the edge between life and death—
Had finally, truly and completely, slept a good sleep.